as the weekend passes and the weekbegins occur…
we passed through the city a million times to begins and ends.
but never a middle.
there are no weekmiddles in our lives.

the lights were bright enough to make you sterile.
our money was found in the hands of beggars and children.
we swiped the card a million times; we crossed the street once or twice or twenty-times.

time stood still the way people always describe it to.
the way people describe things the same way a million times.
the way people pass off memory as intelligence; memory as creativity.
well i will tell you this:
here there are no memories
but a moment and not a moment too soon
and again that is what everyone says
way too many times.

but the weekends, the weekbegins; the lack of weekmiddles.
they converge and diverge
and indulge in pleasures we think about too many times
and pass off uniformity as intelligence
and pass off uniformity as creativity.
but in the words said by a million people a million times over:
“we will meet again. once more these roads will cross”
and once more we will find ourselves
nothing but silhouettes of a weekend.

and here i have said 2539 too many words
and all have been said before
but just like you
i am passing them off as original and creative
as i force myself through the weekmiddles
and recollect the weekbegins and the weekends.
take.

There’s this invisible line somewhere on our lives that changes everything. It can be a wide line–a thick boundary like the Mississippi River–or as undetectable as a precinct line. But it’s there. There’s this invisible line and you usually don’t even know you’ve crossed it until you’re well over on to the other side.

I don’t know where I am. I do, but I don’t. It’s like I’m wading in a murky river, toeing the line or straddling it. I can still see both sides very clearly, but I have this pressing feeling one side will soon be farther than the other.

It’s like this: you’re a kid and you enjoy friday movie nights at home with your family. Then you reach a certain age and staying home on a Friday is the last thing you want to do. Then you’re to the point where you can’t remember the last friday night you spent at home, and then suddenly you’re craving it again.

And now I realize this sounds like I’m talking about middle age, but I’m not. I’m not there yet. This is something else, so similar yet so different.

This is growing up.

Some hit that line sooner than others, by sheer will or circumstances out of their control.

And then there’s me.

It’s not an issue of maturity vs. immaturity–I get that. But priorities and comfort and contentment. It’s what stimulates you and where you find your heart taking you.

I’m still figuring it all out. I tend to over-think things (when I’m not making rash decisions, that is).

It’s that point where going out becomes sad rather than fun (I’m not there).

It’s that point where renting gives way to home ownership (I’m not there).

It’s that point where running a mile becomes a chore (I’m there).

It’s that point where you learn to pick your battles (I’m getting there).

And maybe it’s not so much a single point but a set of points that together form a line and maybe that line isn’t a straight line and maybe that line doesn’t fall in the same place for every person. I’m getting that.

But the line is there and someday I’ll know I’ve passed it (be it by swimming, by air, by digging, by walking, or by closing my eyes and running as fast as I can through it).

* * *

This post was written as a Just Write exercise. A good challenge to get the rust off and find my creativity once more. Bear with me while I attempt to find it!